


Swan Lake | Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida

by Myakavi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28537656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myakavi/pseuds/Myakavi
Summary: Personal work made for my good friend Journey for Secret Santa 2020!! Hope you like it ;)
Relationships: Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Swan Lake | Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: AU in which Andreas never gave up skating and got to continue his dream without a ton of trauma and depression. His soul never breaks, but I let him keep blue eyes just for the hell of it. It was weird writing for an Andreas who isn't as abrasive or pained lowkey but it was kinda interesting to see who he would have become if he matured properly. 
> 
> I also made the reader kinda shy (this is a fic for journey we talking about 🙄🤚) and that was kinda a trip for me but I hope I pulled it off anyway 
> 
> I'm sorry for any mistakes I didnt pick up cause I literally stayed up till 4am writing this. I started it back in early December but nothing was turning out the way I liked so I had to completely start over like yesterday 😫 
> 
> ok PROCEED 🤸♀️🤸♀️ hope you like it !!

You loved to paint the ice.

  
So versatile it was, like a glossy mirror that absorbed the colors of the world around it. Never once the same image, forever changing and forever evolving. Sometimes melted, even, a deep blue under a blazing summer sun, sometimes a chilly gray sprinkled with golden autumn leaves. But the lake was prettiest like this, frozen and surrounded by a blanket of shimmering snow. 

  
Only hours ago at your arrival, it ruled in navy, but it under the lighting of the growing evening it becomes a pool of pinks and purples, ever glittering under the waning sunlight. Soon, it would be a glossy black, shimmering only in polished silver when the moon emerges from behind the pines. This lake, an array of colors that brought forth skaters of all ages and skill levels, each leaving it embroidered with swirls and eights, a masterpiece that you capture in this moment but can only imagine how many other it has born.

  
Sometimes bustling with the laughter of children, some days barren and silent, you do not mind. But nothing could deny that the lake is prettiest now, under the waning light of the sun as it retreats behind the pines of Hokkaido and casts deep blue shadows across the scape. The breeze is gentle enough not to be a nuisance, carrying the crisp scents of winter along with it; it is the picture of comfort in a season so bare, of a place like home, brought to life by none other than Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida. Past your easel and gliding on the ice like a swan over water, he recites his routine to _The Waltz of the Flowers_ in his headphones. He’s a breathtaking sight, powerful and swift in his skates yet immensely smooth, regal, and confident. Concentration can be read on the crease of his brow and clench of his jaw; but these details are just a touch, enough to note the effort he pours into everything he does, but still relaxed enough to make it look so incredibly seamless.

  
You would expect so much from an Olympian, after all. Especially one you’ve had the honor of studying for the past few days now, each time you return to paint the lake.   
  
Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida is a sight to behold. All legs and level gazes, carrying himself with an air of authority that stole your attention without a thought to spare—as if those blue eyes weren’t striking enough. His energy of superiority was not of arrogance, rather earned respect; it was as if the birds and the crickets all silenced their song when he approached, reverent in his presence; he, the young Olympian with more medals than you could carry. He seemed so far away, at first. Someone capable of immeasurable success, and coming from a family that reflected the same principles. You, on the other hand… well, you were never one to skate—you had never invested in the means necessary. But that was alright. Simply observing, capturing, creating a gallery’s worth of this place in a thousand different moments was enough.  
  
Or so you believed.  
  
The wind is beginning to chill even more, signaling the approach of evening. You wipe your brush off on a rag before setting it back into its box. You suppose it’s time to pack up your supplies and go home, especially since your painting is nearly finished. The sky has waned from a rosy pink to a deeper lavender, and the temperatures are bound to drop even more. Not the you mind too much, because the opportunity to watch Andreas is a blessing like no other.

  
When you finish folding up your easel and sealing up your supplies, you offer one final glance to the glistening lake expecting to see him there—but it’s empty. You and Andreas are not particularly close, but after a few shared conversations, greetings, and farewells, you supposed it would be safe to consider yourselves acquaintances. You had to admit that was a little bit of why you kept coming back, even when it got colder—not only was his skill on ice unmatched as an excellent painting subject, he was also surprisingly pleasant to have around. Something about the way he would flash a cordial smile as he said “hello again” when you both happened to arrive at the lake at the same time was the highlight of your evening.

  
And he is… quite handsome, actually. But that was beside the point.  
  
“Are you packing up already?”  
  
Speak of the devil—there stands Andreas, above your crouching form with a hand extended in a polite gesture that has your cheeks dusting rose. You take his hand in yours, and he seamlessly lifts you from your spot in the snow.  
  
“Yeah. I figured that if I finished the rest of my painting, then I had nothing else to stay for.”  
  
Andreas’s expression changes at your comment, eyebrows drawn up in some form of curiosity that nears the borders of incredulity. “Oh? There still seems to be a little light out, though, you really want to head in before it’s necessary?” He almost catches you off guard, how polite he is in person when from afar he looks so regal and untouchable. “I won’t stop you, of course, but I just wanted to ask you something.”  
  
There was something about his interest in you that sparks your chest aflame. It wasn’t anything special—no, not at all. Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida lives in a world more intriguing than young painters who only come to one spot. But you have to ask, “What were you wondering?”  
  
Andreas’s gaze holds yours in cool regard. Glossy and blue, like the ice, or perhaps like the winter sky—only warmer, deep down. A benevolence that you do not expect to see, but is just as entrancing. He’s a somebody and you’re a nobody, but the way his rosy lips curve into the smallest, tamest of smiles has you melting and questioning whether Andreas maybe sees something that you don’t. “Do you bore of painting the same scape over and over?”  
  
An innocent question, and it has Andreas tilting his head curiously. It’s not long before he draws his sight away only to drink in the scenery around you, standing painted in the light of the evening almost as if he searched the world around him for the beauty you had captured so many times. “You see, I learned to skate here. It carries so many memories for me, being held up by my mother and finding a passion that could earn me gold. But—“ words carried by the winter wind, Andreas breaks himself off. His gaze floats downward. Is he… embarrassed? “Uhm, yeah. I should not ramble. You see, I was just wondering if I could buy one of those paintings from you. And, well, I plan to leave Hokkaido for a time on a business venture my parents require I attend. And, well, I…”  
  
Anticipation has your heart thrumming in your chest like hummingbird’s wings. Andreas raises his eyes, and it’s as if all shyness he may have been distracted by was coolly willed away. “I’ve not once seen you skate on this ice before. Do you not want to experience something you’ve replicated with your own two hands?”  
  
“I…” You’re immensely flustered by the proposition—and by the thought of landing on your bottom in front of one of the single greatest figure skaters of your time. “Well, I never learned to skate.” It’s a solid, valid answer, you think, but when you notice he’s opened his mouth to speak again you must quickly add, “But that’s fine, I know someone of your caliber couldn’t be bothered to spend time teaching an amateur the basics.”  
  
“Nonsense.” Andreas rebuts. Firmer, his voice resonates to your bone. He does not yell—but he does not need to. Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida has a way with words, and your heart is weak to him. “It would be my pleasure. After all, I owe no less to someone whose creations I wish to patronize. You are the artist who put my fondest pastimes on canvas.”  
  
When he says it like that, holding eye contact with friendly determination, you struggle to form excuses. “I—I don’t own a pair of skates.”  
  
“Who do you take me for?”  
  
—  
  
  
When Andreas offered to teach you to skate, you certainly didn’t expect to be gifted a brand new pair. Uncreased and white, caressing your feet snugly as you finish tying them up. “That was completely unnecessary, Andreas. You’re already more than paid for any of my paintings by offering to teach me how to skate.”  
  
Andreas is a man of surprises, you’ve come to learn quite quickly. Headphones tucked into the hem of his turtleneck, he pushes himself off the bank to slide over the ice. He does not go far, smoothly turning back to face you. “Come on, it’s not that big of a deal. Do you think I know what to do with all my money? And we are friends now, aren’t we?”  
  
Friends?  
  
You hadn’t really realized it—perhaps because of how much you esteemed him, considered him someone out of reach because of how skilled and capable he was—but you and Andreas have spoken frequently enough that maybe friendship with him wasn’t so ridiculous after all.  
  
“Take my hand.” Yanked out of your thoughts for the second time that evening, Andreas stands above you with his hand extended again, this time over his ice. This time, over your painting.  
  
Despite how much your heart threatens to quicken and set your cheeks ablaze, you take his hand anyway. Shaky and like a newly hatched swan you attempt to stand on the ice with your skates. You feel as ridiculous as an elephant on a tightrope, and it doesn’t help that each slight shift of your weight nearly sends you tumbling onto the ice below. “Are you sure I can handle this on my own?” You blurt out, but you’re finally standing. Hunched and with your arms flailing out at your sides, but standing nonetheless. Success! Until a gust of wind and a feeling of horror send your stomach up into your throat. Your feet are sent up, slipping, and the ice rises up at you like a dodgeball. “ACK—“   
  
The impulse to squeeze your eyes shut is snapped in half when you feel something firmly yank you back up. “I got you, I got you. Relax.” Andreas’s voice comes out in a chuckle, and—wait, is he smiling? “You’re picking up quickly, believe it or not. Just take my hands and don’t let go.”  
  
You take in a deep breath, releasing it shakily through a smile. “Okay. I got you.”  
  
You feel surprisingly calmer now, with your hands held tightly in his. It’s getting colder and the lavender sky is sinking into a deep, darker blue, but you almost don’t care, because through the fabric of gloves, Andreas’s hands are delightfully warm. You want desperately to glance up at him, that pleasant, handsome face, but if you dare peel your eyes away from the skates beneath you, you might just collapse. This time, into his arms.   
  
Not so bad, you think, if only you wouldn’t die of red hot embarrassment immediately after.  
  
“It’s easier if you take your mind off of it,” He advises, almost as if he’s read your mind—but you suppose it wouldn’t take a mindreader to tell you’re putting as much brainpower into the task as you can. “Look up at me?”  
  
Nodding, you slowly draw your gaze upward, unintentionally capturing the shape of his lean figure—the slight slope of his waist, the swell of his chest—before shyly taking purchase on the small smile adorning his face.  
  
And just then is when you feel fingers brush at your ear, placing one of his earbuds there—and just then is when you realize that his hand was no longer supporting you, and your weight threatens to throw you off to the side again. Luckily, Andreas is quick to read your mind again, and he returns his hand quickly to yours.   
  
“I’m going to pull you forward, but I want you to focus on the music for me, alright?”  
  
The music, huh?  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Your head floods with a sweet, mild melody. Tchaikovsky’s _Pas de Deux_ , no doubt. You’d heard it about a hundred times before, but now on the ice with none other but Andreas Razumovsky Tsuchida, it becomes something else—even _he_ is someone else; not a distant Olympian, but a young man desiring nothing but someone to spend this moment with, to share it with.  
  
He draws you forward with the strings of a harp, and before you know it you’ve fallen into stride with this slow glide. Andreas is smiling bigger now, bright and unreserved—but you dare not take your attention away from the music.   
  
Soon, you’re evolving from hesitant septs to longer, more graceful strides. Though you are no Olympian, it feels almost as if this is a dance created by the two of you for no other. The occasional tug of Andreas’s lead takes you in different directions and swirls so perfectly in sync with the music. A routine neither of you have experienced before, but is crafted so perfectly.  
  
The notes take form with crescendos, and these draw you forward. Each measure, each stride evolves and blossoms in the colors of the growing night sky, chilly but speckled with starlight and smiles and immeasurable enjoyment. Each note takes you higher on this staircase to reach a final peak where you will overlook the world—a world you had created and captured but until now in Andreas’s hands never _experienced_.   
  
A memory that cannot be saved, rather is meant to be lived.  
  
The tempo only increases. Each stride only becomes stronger, more determined, more passionate. You let yourself be drawn away by the music and Andreas’s lead, for nothing else seems to matter. Exhaustion does not exist, for this moment feels timeless, like a scene written in the book of fate.   
  
And, finally, in a smooth diminuendo it comes to an end. A twirl, going hand in hand and feeling like children playing ring around the rosie. But the difference is that you do not fall down at the end; instead, you conclude closer than ever, chests pressed together and noses nearly touching, cheeks rosy and lips parted to gasp for breath.   
  
There is a moment of just staring up at him, wondering if he sees the same thing you do. You do not dare break this silence—clutching his coat, staring up into his wide, crystal eyes, you have answer enough that none of this is a dream. You don’t want to let go, lest this moment come to an end, but neither does he.  
  
Andreas is all too aware of how close you are now, but he does not pull away. “I thought you said you couldn’t skate,” he murmurs, cheeks and nose flushed and husky voice barely above a whisper. From the cold, is all, you tell yourself, but the fierce pounding of his heart tells a different story.  
  
“I can’t,” you murmur back, “I think that—that if I let go now, I’ll fall.”  
  
This is where shyness would get the best of you and you’d look away; where he would nod or perhaps laugh it off, maybe walk you back to your easel and bid you adieu. But tonight none of that happens, and you can only stare up at him as he stares back. Instead, under the silver light of the young moon, you feel his grip on you tighten, and you can’t help but lean into him in return.  
  
 _“Then don’t let go.”_


End file.
